


Taste of a Gun Barrel

by 0027



Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Other, Reader-Insert, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-01 14:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18802231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0027/pseuds/0027
Summary: But he ain’t a greedy man— he just wants what he wants, and got the patience to back it up.Besides, he enjoys hearing you talk.





	Taste of a Gun Barrel

Dust, sand and grit; none of it is complete without the thrills Outworld brings to the table, and Erron Black is right at home in the thick of it all. Not everybody thrives here the way he does, having to fight tooth and nail to survive.

Only winners make it home alive, or make a home at all.

So he’s the man, the myth, the legend— who just so happens to be an unapologetic gunslinger with a mouthful of snark at the tip of his tongue. A rebel with a questionable cause, a man whose fealty can be bought and sold at the right price; the one and only Erron Black.

You find him sitting there all lonesome, perched on a worn down boulder in front of his bell tent— to the farthest, quietest edge of the camp— cleaning the barrels of his guns. Right ankle resting on his left knee, revolver snug in his gloved hand, a handkerchief in the other. Outworld’s sunset gleams off the metal he’s holding and casts a shadow from his hat over his eyes.

 _Shame_ , you think. You’d love to have them on you instead.

“Busy?” Your voice catches his attention well enough— enough for Erron to peek a glance as you make your way over. He doesn’t linger long, tending back to his weapon a second later, though the hum of his voice is welcoming. His sideways lean, a wordless invitation. The cock of his head draws you in.

“Need anythin’, sugar?”

“Not really, I just missed you,” you answer, licking your lips, approving of the way he drawls his words.

Erron chuckles, and that’s all you need to slip your arms around his shoulders, swinging your legs to claim his lap as your seat. _That_ draws him off his gun, lowering it to the side, lifting his face to regard you with a raised brow.

“Remember when we met for the first time?” you ask.

“How I gave you a good, thorough beatin’?” he guesses.

“You and I have very different recollections on what happened,” your breath ghosts over the shell of his ear, grinning against it, tightening your hold on him, “ _Mr. Black_.” Fiddling with the tresses of hair at the back of his head, you continue, “How I remember it, I put you to the ground. You got real familiar with it.”

He’s always liked the way you chitter when you laugh, crowing when you’re pressed close to him, how your exhale is warm on his skin. Erron doesn’t mind how your heat melds with the dunes and desert’s; it’s getting colder anyway, now that the sky’s beginning to dusk. And his mask is the only thing separating his lips from your neck. Boy, does it tempt Erron to take the damn thing off his face to kiss you silly.

But he ain’t a greedy man— he just wants what he wants, and got the patience to back it up.

Besides, he enjoys hearing you talk.

“You name your guns?” you ask out of the blue, picking what he left behind. You know he doesn’t let just anybody touch his babies— seen him break someone’s arm when they tried to. But he sits there, perfectly content as you run your fingers along its body, admiring how much care has been poured through all these years.

What it’s gone through, whose blood it’s spilled, the lives it’s taken. Leaves a lot up to the imagination.

“I don’t name ‘em,” Erron lolls his neck, enjoying your display, a hand massaging the stiff muscles on his shoulder. “I know all of 'em by heart and touch. Don’t need any names, I ain’t a coot.”

Indulging your whims, you acknowledge his reply by lifting the gun to kiss it, leaving an imprint of your lips, and feel the man you’re leaning on tense as he watches you. Something about it pulls a rope in him taut, catching his attention faster, _deeper_ by the second. Erron’s hand finds your chin, rough as the glove might be, he’s both careful and firm when he tilts your head towards his own.

“Now, what are you doin’?” Erron wonders, rasp in his speech. “I don’t recall letting you pucker your lips for my gun, let alone give her a big ol’ smooch.”

“Didn’t know I needed your permission.” You talk between teeth, blooming a lopsided smile that makes Erron still and slit his eyes— defiance in yours, wide open now.  _There’s_  an expression you’re all too familiar with, the same glaze, the same coveting gleam that mirrors your own. “Are you jealous, Mr. Black? Of your nameless gun?”

Yeah, he knows what he wants alright. And you don’t have to peer any further— the look he bears on you is more than enough.

But you decide to push your luck, test the waters, tucking the revolver into its holster nice and ginger. Your movements are slow, steady when you anchor your weight on him till your knees are on either sides of his thighs. Erron shifts underneath, planting both feet on the ground below, palms rough on your hips as you block the last remaining light that dies on your back.

It never reaches Erron and he basks under the darkness you’ve created with the sun’s halo drawing your outline. You see the deep heave, hear his breath hissing through the mask.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to be jealous of,” he squeezes, pressing you harder onto him till you’re snug up on his fatigues. “You’re mine.”

“Did you say the same thing to Nitara and Skarlet?” You’re closer now, nose barely an inch off his face, hands trailing upwards till they find the exposed skin of his neck.

“Was only in it with them for the thrill, baby doll.”

Your fingernails dig into where your they are resting and you hear Erron’s ragged inhale. It sounds almost like a yes when he exhales, a rumble telling you it’s good.  _Yes_ , because  _don’t stop_ , because he’s half hard and desperately tries to find some form of friction on you— a soft, “ _Shit,”_ followed by a dismayed grunt are all it takes for you to figure out it’s not enough.

Not for him, and not for you. Not with all these damn clothes in the way.

So you lean in, dragging your fingers, cradling his head to crane it up and towards you. Your mouth twists when you drag your teeth over your lower lip, the straddle of your legs on his puts him to a halt. Erron’s chest rises, falls, rises again, one toiling breath after the other.

“And what are you in for  _now_ , Mr. Black?”

“You make my heart flip flop all the damn time—”

A hushed curse slips from his mouth when you slope your neck to the side, staring him down, unclipping his mask. Erron feels his gut snag and drop the way it does when his opponent comes to close, when his finger barely manages to pull the trigger on the last second a little too narrow at the end of the timer between living and dying. His mask hovers in your hands, hiding his face still, but the way he swallows dryly doesn’t go unnoticed.

God, you’re fucking gorgeous.

“—Don’t think it’s stoppin’ any time soon.”

“It’ll be a bullet through your heart when it does stop,” you promise, putting the mask away, not caring whether it stays on the boulder or fall to the ground. Lips, touching Erron’s chapped ones, parting and closing as you tell against it, “And I’ll be the one to put it there.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he groans, struggling to fight his eyes from fluttering shut when your gaze locks onto them. Erron’s efforts doesn’t last, admitting defeat by letting his lids fall. Brows knit together while fingers furl and roam up to your waist for a purchase at  _something_ , thighs rubbing against yours, his spine arching sweetly at the thought—

“Yes,” he repeats, breathless, caving in. “ _Yes Boss_.”

And the great Erron Black comes apart in your hands, just like that.

You kiss him the way you know he likes it— with tongue and teeth, deep enough to leave a red bruise, leave them plump and swollen and tingling after. Erron kisses back, you toss his hat off, and his hands hoist you from under while yours tangle in his hair.

His scent is the way you remember it always being; of musk and leather, gunpowder and the sun with a hint of cedarwood fading in the roof of your mouth when you breathe in— you can almost  _taste_  it.

“Can I have you tonight?” he pleads, the uncharacteristic whisper shared only between the two of you. Only known to  _you_. A hoarse confession decorated with a nip at your lips that you reward with a pleased sigh: “I’ve been thinkin’ about you, been wanting you. Touchin’ myself to you.”

“Tell me how you want it, Erron—” The sentence cuts before you finish his name and he swallows your honeyed laugh. Dances with your tongue, eager and starving for every drop of you he can get.

Erron’s kisses are hot and heavy; he kisses you again and you’re reminded of rifle bullets and the searing pain, except you feel no pain and it sears just the same. You slip your index between his teeth, parting away to fill your burning lungs, feel them sink into your flesh and slaver from well kissed lips coating your finger slick.

When you start talking between pants, he lets your finger go. Cupping his cheek with that same hand, you say, “Tell me—  _everything_  and I’ll give it all to you tonight… I’ll take good care of you tonight.”

“You’ll take good care of me tonight,” he echoes, strained, and shudders.

Erron buries his face into the crook of your neck and pulls you flush against him. There’s a soft, filthy moan muffled where his mouth presses when you roll your hips and grind through the fabric of his pants. And though it’s dulled, Erron’s presence is enough to make you teeter and shut your eyes.

“I want you to fuck me, ride me, fill me—” damp heat seeps between your legs, into your blood, crawling from the tips of your toes till they color your ears— “I want you to make a mess outta me, doll. Make a  ** _mess_**  outta me.”

Erron’s growl does it. You tell him to go in the tent, spacious enough to accommodate two bodies, voice coarse, grating your throat and he finds himself walking backwards through the entrance with you on his arms. He laps at your jaw, suckles on it, your hands untangling all the belts that loop both your bodies, the zippers and the clips.

One by one, they fall on the floor— his poncho, bandoilers, and vest. Erron drops on his bum then to his back on the measly, makeshift bed with you looming above, ass sitting pretty on his still clothed bulge while you take your time unbuttoning his shirt.

He’s hot between your legs and it makes you squirm.

“Please,” Erron sighs, hips curving to the shape of yours, digging blunt nails in your thighs. His head rolls back, showing you what’s for the taking. You push your palms flat against his bare abs, past all the scars and dips you feel under your skin, moving your body along until your mouth finds his neck and thumbs find his nipples, rolling and flicking them. It elicits a series of pleased grunts from Erron, keening into your touch. Your intention is to make your mark on him, make sure it  _shows_ , to paint him in pretty shades of red and blue and mix them both.

Indigo will look good on him, especially side by side with the the marks of long gone throes.

South is your next destination, peppering bites and butterfly kisses along the way, already unbuckling his belt and pulling it off. His pants come off enough for you to press your nose on his briefs, his hands running through your hair lovingly as you put your tongue over the fabric that’s wet with his precum. Erron watches, lips parted, jolting when you run down from the tip of his length.

“Let me…” your fingers pause at the band of his underwear, and you turn a patient look into his eyes. Erron swallows. “Let me have a taste of you too, sweetheart. I want— I  _need_  it. I need it.”

“Atta boy,” you coo, kicking your shoes off, discarding garments in a haphazard manner as you crawl on all fours. Erron misses the way you press against his cock, but he doesn’t voice any complaints when he finds his face between your legs.

And _the guy_ , you think, _has the gall to whine_ when he drags in a breath full of your scent.

Nothing feels quite the same as the way Erron works his mouth, his tongue lavishly prodding and sucking on your undergarment where he hits a sweet spot that curls your toes. He asks for permission to take it off, and you agree, slithering your fingers to pull his briefs down and slip his length out. It’s hard now, in your hand, twitching and dripping.

Cold air hits your bare skin after he tugs away the measly fabric along your thighs; though Erron’s hot breath quickly replaces the night’s dropping temperature and you shiver at the contrast.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” you murmur.

You dip, mouth over the head of Erron’s cock, and you can feel his moan on your skin. Your head bobs as you pump him up and down, careful with your teeth. His moves tend along the rhythm you’ve set, thumb rubbing over your entrance as he zeroes in on where he knows it feels good with his mouth.

Relentless, and constant. The type that draws out soft groans and mindless praise from you.

Muscles flex under your stomach, so do his thighs from the corners of your eyes, tensing, his heels digging the ground. You curl up, free hand clawing at Erron’s jerking hip when the pressure builds, breathing labored as you ride his face and leave both his palms clinging on your rear.

“ _Mmh_ , that’s good. Such a good boy,” you swoon, heavy eyes, slick cock sliding on the side of your cheek. Your hand doesn’t stop, palming the tip, showering kisses along the veins and down to have a taste of his sack.

Erron can only make out a swathed gasp.

“You’re wet, Mr. Black. So wet, what are we going to do with you?” And finally, you give him a moment of respite, lifting off from him to catch a glimpse of his dazed expression over your shoulder. He spams under your touches, you lick at your swollen lips. “Tell me, tell me what you want me to do with you.”

“Let me come,” he shivers, a light sheen of sweat dampening his skin. “Please, fuck me till I come, baby. I want _you_. It’s been so long.”

“Inside?” you purr, turning back around and find his lips to have a taste of yourself on his tongue. You groan, shameless, and Erron nods.

“Inside,” he croaks to your lazy kiss, canting his head to match you, feather light touches down your spine until he rests on the small of your back. His cock rubs on your ass, nose buried in your hair. “What d’you need me to do, sweetheart?”

“Just stay still.” You preen through his mussed up hair, smoothing it back tenderly, tucking stray strands away. There’s a smile on your face, admiring the stupor in Erron’s gaze and the way his hair frames his forehead. You press another kiss there. “Stay still and enjoy the show, dear.”

Enjoy the show he does, even without you telling him to. There’s a small bottle of oil you fish out from the mess of your clothes, popping it open and pouring a liberal amount all over your hand. You rub it on, and slide a forefinger in, then the middle, fucking your already soaked entrance. Head, thrown back, lips parted and Erron’s name rolling off your tongue becomes the finest song to his ears.

The blush decorating your face and beads of sweat cascading down your collarbone makes Erron’s heart skip a beat.

They’re hard to miss, and harder to ignore.

Your other hand braces your body against his chest, and he takes liberty to leave hickeys on your neck, fondling your nipples between his fingers. He kneads them, massaging down your sides, spreading your ass and lifting your hips. Your laugh is a staccato as your fingers slip out with a squelch.

“Patience,” you warn, sucking off the slickness from your digits and positions the head of his cock where they’d just been. “You want me to fuck you, Erron?”

“I do,” he’s winded, nodding, a shiver running up his spine.

“Have you ever had anyone fuck you?” you ask, voice low enough to be guttural, bordering a growl. “Fuck you _proper_ , pound your ass. Have you a mess in your own cum. Have you?”

“N-no,” he stutters when you lower yourself down on him, shaking his head. You see the tips of his ears turn a cherry color. “No, I haven’t, Boss.”

“Maybe next time I should,” you sigh, moaning heartily when he’s sheathed in completely and makes you feel whole. Full. You stay there, and Erron doesn’t move, clinging on you till you give him the word. “I’ll make you come without touching your cock, Erron. Make you a sobbing mess.”

The imagery you give him is there to stay, there for him to collect your debt one day, and he can only strain out a strangled groan against your bare skin that’s clammy and damp. It tastes of salt, but lord is it one of the more inviting things he’s tasted.

You, and you. And more of you.

The tent smells like sex and both of you know it. It’s stuffy, but the good kind, the kind that makes you struggle to breathe and numb your brain with pleasure when you bounce on him, exhaling his name, moaning out obscene things.

Indecent squelches and your voice melding with Erron’s quieter ones, your own name rambling off his lips like a prayer. And against the quiet night in the camp that’s set somewhere far from bustling markets, it wouldn’t be surprising to have someone pass by the tent and hear everything loud and clear.

Except you don’t care, and neither does he. If they decide to stay and enjoy the show, then there’ll be a price to pay later. And you know neither of you come cheap.

“ _Fuck_ , sweetie, I— you feel so damn _good_ ,” he sobs, slurring the words, “so good, so hot—”

Your arms wrap around him, slipping under his neck, and you rest your lips by his ear. What comes out is garbled, but no less of an order than you mean it to be: “Move for me, Erron, you don’t get to be a pillow princess tonight.”

Earning his prize is something Erron is good at. And holy shit, do you never regret telling him to fuck you— he, finally earning your authorization, holds you pressed against him till you swear you can feel his heartbeat on yours. It’s a blur of gasps and moans and your name feverishly scattered all over you.

On your lips, teeth knocking, your neck, your shoulder. You convulse, and your body twists, gasping and moaning and whimpering. A repetition of _fuck yes_ and _right there_ with rolled back eyes, clenched fists and toes and Erron’s hips turn to pistons ramming into you. Skin, slapping against skin, and that’s what rings throughout.

“So close,” his cry is muffled, teeth grazing your shoulder, “so _close_.”

“Then come,” your exhale shakes, somehow maintaining the resolute tone despite the absolute wreck he’s made, and you swallow noisily.

Erron shudders, holding your hips still while you brace on him. He fucks you, pounds into you, quiet except for the ragged, hot breath that coils your guts just the same. And you know he’s close when his thrusts fall off tempo, careless and chaotic but hitting somewhere delightful all the same.

You tense when he does, the drawn out moan shifting into a feral growl as he bites into your flesh. It stings and he can taste iron in his mouth. You jolt, and moan, and he continues to buck and rut as he rides his orgasm, loosening his hold on you after he’s gone off from the high.

“Me,” you mumble, and he knows immediately what you mean. Erron licks on the wound he’s made, the mark he’s carved, slipping out of you with a wet squelch. You roll off him, spreading your legs apart, twitching from the sudden _lack_ of Erron buried in you.

Yet the disappointment doesn’t last long when he bends down, intent on finishing you off with his mouth and hands. He has a taste of his own seed, his moans dirty, sinful as he laps up what leaks out from you. Hands, and fingers, busy working to draw your climax out.

Fast, hot, and heavy. It’s rough fingers against everywhere you’re sensitive and swollen, and your spine arches, hissing, feel your mind keeling in on itself when you see white and you release right on his face with spasms running from head to toe.

A moment of silence, filled in with only a pair of heaving breaths, before you finally regain your senses and your touch back on reality. Erron licks his fingers clean, while you pull him by the arm to lie beside you. There’s a glow about his face, and a crooked smile on yours.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, voice soft, dry and hoarse. You wipe his face as clean as you can with your hand.

“Amazin’,” he answers, fulfilled and content as he snuggles up beside you. At first, you hadn’t pegged him for a guy to cuddle, but it’s been years and you’ll never not enjoy his presence beside your worn out body. Seems like it’s the same for him.

The kiss you share next is soft, light; gentler on sore lips. Erron sighs, grunting, shifting till he finds the perfect position with an arm slung on your abdomen while yours absentmindedly rub his forearm.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “I missed you.”

“I know,” you say softly, chuckling, lips against his hair. “I did too.”

“I’m thinkin’ of quitting this farce with the Black Dragons,” he chatters, voice turning private and mild. “It ain’t fun, Kano’s nothin’ but a wad of dick and summore. It’s boring here, all work, shit price. Kotal’s got a better offer up for me.”

“Mhm,” you brush his hair, and he sighs against it. “Then you should leave.”

“Can’t even see you that often,” Erron adds, scoffing. “Asshole’s sending me to weird places, I swear it’s on purpose.”

You’re genuinely amused when you laugh out of your chest, shaking your head. _He’s sulking_ , you think. But it’s endearing just the same to you. A testament of his trust for you. “What’s stopping you?”

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, chuckling when you laugh. “I’m getting out of here morning comes.”

“Sure,” you say, sighing from your nostrils as you tuck your chin on the crown of his head. “I’ll never be too far from you.”

“Best assassin in Outworld?” Erron crows.

“Best assassin in Outworld.”

He grins, nudging your chin with his head. “Couldn’t even kill me.”

“Didn’t want to,” you admit, clicking your tongue. “And you paid me double to kill the guy who wanted you dead. More for me.” You give him a light pat. “Snatched you up too.”

“I wasn’t letting a pretty thing like you go.”

Comfortable silence settles, before Erron breaks it with a call of your name. Your eyes crack open, canting down with a, “ _Hm_?” and a curious look.

“You think I’m naive?”

“That’s an odd question,” you muse. “Why?”

“I’ve lived for more than a hundred years,” he starts, lifting a look to you, lips twisting. “And I’m still betting my cards on people like Kano.”

“I like that part of you.” There’s no hesitation in your answer, fingers tracing his jawline, tucking strands of hair behind his ear. Erron’s got a way with his loyalty— extending much farther, much deeper than the money he parades. “All heart, wearing it on your sleeve. Not doing things half-assed.”

In his words once upon a time, _no one can take the scrawny kid from Wickett outta me._

“Don’t try to brown nose me,” Erron chortles.

“But I’m not,” you close your eyes again, letting the drowse drift you off someplace else. “I like knowing I won’t be stabbed behind my back.”

“How’d I know you wouldn’t?”

“You won’t until I do,” you agree with the point he brings up. Betrayals are a part of your job, an everyday page in your book. But there’s no alarm in his tone; just a question, while your limbs are all tangled with his. “If I ever do. I don’t want to. I’ll miss on purpose for you, though.”

“How sweet,” Erron’s shoulder shake, humored. “Alright. I’ll take your words for that.”

“You should.”

“I will.”

“...I need a bath.”

“Yeah,” he concurs, nose scrunching. “We both do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm debating on writing a multichapter fic for this specific reader and how they met but, what do you guys think? (I need to douse myself with holy water though, that's for sure.) On another note, Erron's great. Love the guy. He's totally gonna start naming his guns after this, but they're gonna be completely ridiculous and he puts no effort in them, like _Whiskey and Regret_. Good man.


End file.
